Each and every day for the better part of a week she sat at her mother’s bedside.
Staring at all the IV lines which extended deep into her mother’s body. And the tube in her throat to keep her breathing. One into her belly to nourish her. One in her side to drain a massive infection. Another collecting urine that dripped steadily into a bag at the side of the bed. Lines into a vein in her neck. More lines in her arms. Monitors checking her breathing, her heart, her pulse. Her temperature. Pulsing green lights and squiggly lines and sometimes the sound of a flashing red alarm.
All the while her mother slept. The sleep of the unconscious. Oblivious to the doctors and the nurses. And to Carol. And to Anna. Oblivious to pain. Oblivious to life.
